


The Warmth of Two Suns

by zinzinina



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Obi-Wan Kenobi Has Issues, Sad Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sand Gets Everywhere, Slow Burn, sorry fam obi-wan doesn't fuck on the first date, watch me make a bunch of shit up about meteorology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29694354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinzinina/pseuds/zinzinina
Summary: Since the fall of the Republic, you've seen lots of new faces around Mos Eisley. This is where people come to disappear, and suddenly everyone's looking for a place to hide. None of it holds any interest for you. None of it, except for the stranger in the brown robes.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your feedback! See you soon. x

The stranger is back.

Although, to be fair, there’s been an influx of unfamiliar faces around Mos Eisley since the Clone Wars ended. The end of the war and subsequent formation of the new Empire may have had nearly no bearing on your daily life on Tatooine, but the rest of the galaxy seems to have been turned on its head. Not a day goes by without more news of the execution of some dissenter or other, the surrender of an objecting system or the decommissioning of clone troopers - delivered in the same boastful brass of all new Imperial propaganda. As a result, the marketplace is constantly a flurry of furtive activity, offworlders looking for someplace to hide from the new regime and the usual gangsters working overtime to protect their investments in case the Empire decides to take a sudden interest in this backwater hive of criminal dealings beyond the token presence of a handful of troopers.

Most of it holds no interest for you. But this stranger… you’ve noticed him before. He’s ridden into the outpost semi-regularly for rations and repair supplies, so you can only assume he’s living somewhere out in the desert. Each time he’s appeared in town, you’ve noticed him steer well clear of the newly-appointed Imperial trooper enlistees and keep the hood of his cloak drawn down, posture straighter and gait far smoother than any other man you’ve seen in these parts.

You managed to eavesdrop on his murmured conversation with the ancient woman who trades pallie fruit last time he was here, and his clipped, musical accent confirmed your suspicions that he was from a Core World. Which begs the question: why the hell would a Coruscanti guy choose to live alone out beyond the Dune Sea? Today he follows the same routine you’ve watched each time, skirting the edges of the marketplace and quietly approaching a rations trading stand. Attempting to assume an air of casual indifference, you drift in the same direction, abandoning your post monitoring the moisture sensors delivering readings from around the outpost.

Is he a merchant? Unlikely, you decide as you nonchalantly run your fingers over a woven rug beside the ration stand. You’ve never seen him bring anything with him into the market, and he’s obviously not interested in networking. You catch a glimpse of the lower half of his face as he speaks softly to the ration trader, a nervous-looking Ithorian with a translation vocoder around his neck. A full, neatly trimmed russet beard moves slightly with his words, and you can see the faint upturn of smooth, full lips. Too… gentle for the organised crime syndicates, you think. He’s already done negotiating the handful of ration packs and thanking the trader as he moves further into the market. He must be a remnant of the Republic, you realise. Some kind of diplomat whose views didn’t align very closely with the new government. It would explain the subterfuge and self-imposed isolation, and your intrigue is piqued even further.

You’re realising now that you’re probably doing the exact opposite of what he wants, and guilt washes over you. He’s trying to evade notice and you’re creeping over to watch him? Face prickling, you hurry back to your station. Just because he’s the most interesting person you’ve seen in Mos Eisley in years doesn’t mean you can start daydreaming after him. And you’ve got a job to do, the Hutts would have you mounted on the wall if they knew you’d been… oh no. By the looks of the giant half-Twi’lek staring your way, it’s too late.

You attempt to hoist a conciliatory expression onto your face as you approach the hulking, scarred monster standing with his arms folded in front of your equipment.

“Hey Yulmu, can’t a girl catch a ‘fresher break?”, you flutter at him, trying to conceal the creeping revulsion you feel whenever the thug is near.

“Nice try, _ma koochoo_. Storm’s coming, and we’re due a spice shipment from Yuba’s crew before sundown. The boss needs to know if we have time to meet them halfway before the whole place goes up in sand.”

You gape up at him, forgetting for a moment he just busted you sneaking away from your station.

“But you know the wind sensors in the north corner went down last week,” you blurt out.“I haven’t had a chance to get out there yet, someone was supposed to run a new sub-panel out to me tomorrow!”

Your regret is instant. Yulmu leans forward, his smirk splitting open into a fanged grin as he grips your chin and tilts your face towards him.

“I wasn’t asking, sweetheart. Although if you want to explain to Bib what you were doing making bantha eyes after every man in the outpost be my guest. If you were so desperate for attention, you shouldn’t have stabbed me with that screwdriver. I might give you another chance. If you beg me.”

You seethe at him. “Go ahead and try touching me again, sleemo. It’s your eye.”

His gaze lingers on your body in challenge as you seize your toolkit and spin on your heel. You feel like physically shaking yourself off as you stalk away, trying not to let the patronising drawl of his voice settle down your spine. You knew about the coming storm of course, no local could miss the dropping pressure in the air, but you have absolutely no way of knowing if you’ll get the damaged sensor working in time to predict a thing. With your luck you’ll have a lungful of sand before you can get back to shelter, and you figure there are only a few hours left before the wind picks up in earnest.

Groaning, you kick up the pace until you reach the row of speeder bikes parked behind the wall of an alleyway. Your ancient, rusting bike is so ugly not even the Jawas would steal it, but it has room for tools and reading equipment and you’re secretly proud of the small modifications you’ve made over the years. You wrap your hair and face in your coarse scarf, hoping to keep the worst of the suns off before your throw your leg over the seat and roar off in the direction of the north gate. The day is blindingly bright as you leave the city walls and the heat reflecting back off the dunes in waves is eye watering.

-

The sensor is completely dead. You gaze at it morosely for a second, standing atop a flat rock outcrop. There are absolutely no readings coming out of this thing, and even if there were you can’t see how wasting time riding out here and back would help Jabba’s cronies get their stupid fucking spice faster. Not for the first time, you feel like screaming with frustration at your own naivety in getting wound up with the Hutts. You used to believe in changes; small ones, quiet ones, but changes nonetheless. Having watching for years as the organised crime syndicates on this planet bullied farmers out of every drop of water, you’d been working quietly to make small adjustments to your atmospheric readings… enough to create space for a family to hold onto the water they need to keep their livestock alive, or to protect the old man living alone past the Waldo Flats from being beaten to death after he failed to pay up even a drop last cycle. You’re not stupid; you know your days are numbered. Frankly it’s a miracle that you’ve gotten away with it for so long, but you attribute it to the fact that nobody else working with the Hutts has the sensitive understanding you do of the planet’s meteorological cycles and would be able to look that closely at your data.

With a final wrenching pull, you manage to dislodge the fried panel from the sensor and flip it over to see whether there’s any chance of rewiring it as a temporary fix. You’re in luck, you should be able to splice something together long enough to get your readings and then haul ass back to town. One more twist and… there, that should do it. Just as the tension in your shoulders abates in relief, movement out of your peripheral vision pulls your gaze up.

There’s someone out here, just past that overhanging rock formation, making their way out into the desert. What kind of sun-cooked fool would head _out_ when there’s obviously a storm brewing? You grab your macrobinoculars from the back of your bike and zero in on the lone figure, and… Stars, you don’t believe it. It’s the guy from the market, your smooth-talking diplomat. What the fuck is he doing out there? On… an eopie no less? If you hadn’t already figured out he’s not from around here, this would cement it for you. Only an offworlder would make such a risky move.

And because this day was already going so wonderfully, the sensor in your hand chooses that moment to start beeping urgently. The signal’s weak, but it tells you all you need to know: you’ve got maybe just under an hour to get to shelter. The wind must have picked up faster than you thought through that next canyon, and nobody’s getting any spice delivered today. You need to leave, like, now.

But your feet stay rooted to the spot, staring back out over the dunes towards the solitary figure paused on top of a slope. Even if he does figure out he’s in danger, he’d never make it back to Mos Eisley on that slow-moving lump before being sandblasted. _And so what?,_ you think. This is a hard place, and people who can’t survive on their own don’t last. The only reason anybody out here gets involved with a stranger is if they can see something to gain, and you’re fairly certain there’s nothing this man can offer you to make it worth risking your neck. _Even if he did have nice lips,_ a barely discernible whisper at the back of your mind suggests.

You’ll tell yourself later it was stupid, reflexive, and that if you’d thought about it longer you would never have made such a rash decision. But you’ll know deep down, despite every ugly thing you’ve had to do to survive out here, it’s because you’re still soft. Still a hopeful fool. And that terrifies you.

Your speeder bike screams under you as you push the throttle all the way down, the exhaust whipping up sand as you tear off towards the darkening horizon.

-

This is bad. The sand is beginning to burn the line of exposed skin above your gloves and you’ve lost sight of him between the dips and rises in the landscape; you just hope he hasn’t veered off course. The wind in your ears is blotting out the sound of your engines underneath you, and as you crest the top of the dune your eyes are thin slits peering through the gloom.

 _There._ Just at the foot of this hill, the stranger has dismounted his eopie and appears to be trying to drag it back the way he came. The animal is tugging back, clearly panicked and wanting nothing more than to hunker down in the sand.

You skid down the hill, one foot hanging wildly off the side of your speeder as you try to keep your balance. You leap clumsily off your ride as you throw yourself towards the brown cloaked figure.

“You have to leave her. Come on!”, you shout coarsely, tearing your scarf from your mouth in the hope he can hear you.

He doesn’t try to argue, just lays a hand on the eopie’s neck in a momentary gesture that looks almost apologetic before dashing after you back to the speeder. You launch yourself heavily into your seat like a sack of potatoes as the stranger leaps up to sit behind you, oddly light and graceful in his movements.

“Hold onto me, this is going to get a lot worse before we’ll be clear,” you throw over your shoulder, and you feel his arms wrap around your waist. At least he’s not wasting time with questions, which makes you wonder whether he’s intuited more from the situation than you thought.

You’re thanking the Maker for every modification you’ve ever made to this garbage speeder as you skim the top of the dune and catch some serious air, throwing you both down hard as the repulsorlift catches and lurches forward. Tearing over the ground, you can’t see a thing ahead of you - you’re just praying you’re heading in the right direction and that you’ll be able to outrace the coming storm before the flashing city beacons are totally obscured in the dark.

Despite the adrenaline rocketing through your body, you can’t quite ignore the feeling of this man’s chest pressed against you. You don’t know a ton about diplomats, but you wouldn’t have guessed they’d feel quite so… firm… even through several layers of clothing, you could almost swear you feel the outline of long, elegant muscle.

The wind is howling in earnest now, the sand beginning to cut like shrapnel against your cheeks and you feel desperation lurch up into your throat, sure you’ve steered wrong somewhere and you’re just heading further out into the open. Fuck, you’re gonna kill this poor sweet idiot behind you and it’ll be all because he trusted you. But then the man behind you is leaning forward, and you feel the brush of his beard on the side of your face as he raises an arm and gestures ahead slightly to the right, and… there you see it, the red beacons atop the city walls, only a few klicks out.

Your speeder bike is making choked whining noises now, and you’re pretty sure your thighs are the only thing holding the side panels down as everything rattles like it’s going to fall apart. _Just a little bit further,_ you’re chanting to yourself, almost totally blind in the whirling dark, when pure sweet fucking relief washes over you as your speeder roars the last few metres towards the city gates and the buffeting winds are lessened ever so slightly by the walls of surrounding buildings.

This last stretch you can confidently navigate with your eyes shut, steering around a sharp corner and narrowly avoiding smashing against the curved pale walls as you skid to a halt. You don’t stop to check on your companion, just scramble wildly into the tiny doorway of your apartment and recognise disjointedly that he’s followed you inside before slamming the door shut.

You’re gasping desperately for clear air, throat on fire as your back slides slowly down into a slump against the doorway. The feeling of clawing panic is still screaming through your head and you try to breathe slowly, biting the finger of your glove and sliding your shaking hand free from the heavy leather before pressing the heel of your palm into your face. You’ve got an even layer of sand crusted over your eyes and you try not to scratch your skin as you brush it away gently, breathing beginning to slow now your ears aren’t deafened by the wind that you can hear dully slamming against the outside of the building.

Raising your head at the sound of hacking coughs, you can see your new friend isn’t in much better shape. The man has found his way a few steps into the room and has collapsed onto one of the weathered stools beside your minuscule table, bent double as he tries to clear the sand from his airway. You pull yourself up and cross over to his side, unclipping the flask from your hip as you kneel beside the table.

“Here, drink,” you murmur scratchily as you press the canteen into his hand. You catch a glimpse of startled blue eyes from beneath that hood before he’s gulping mouthfuls of water. You lean back onto your heels. You’re suddenly painfully aware that you’ve just brought a total stranger into your home, and you’re now alone with him. You’ve been around a lot of seedy people on Tatooine and you’ve never made quite as dire a mistake as this one before. Girls like you have disappeared into hellish arrangements with the Hutts and other cartels, even being trafficked offplanet. You don’t have a bad feeling about this, but you can’t shake the impression that you’ve put something irreversible into motion here.

To distract yourself you stand and unwind your shawl from your head, a fine shower of sand skittering to the floor as you shake out your hair. You pad into the small alcove you use to prepare food, dropping your shawl onto the bench top. You’re pretty sure you have a heel of haroun bread here somewhere, which is a hell of a lot nicer than the polystarch this guy’s probably used to eating from his ration packs. You dig out some bantha cheese and two desert plums, arranging everything haphazardly onto the modest clay dish you eat from. You’ve never found yourself playing hostess before and you feel weirdly self conscious, wondering whether he’s noticing how threadbare the earth-toned weaving hanging on your wall is or the sad-looking dried driss pod blooms you’ve arranged in a tiny durasteel canister.

You stop in your tracks just before sitting down in the stool opposite his seat as he straightens up and throws his hood back. He’s very… refined-looking. His voice matches his face, and you’re not sure whether that’s a relief or if it makes you more jittery. Light auburn hair trimmed short above a face creased lightly with smile lines and a straight, aquiline nose. His high cheekbones and bright eyes make him appear far younger than you’d guess his actual age to be, although he’s not an old man.

“I owe you a enormous debt of gratitude,” he says and you’re struck again by the clarity of that voice. You detect a slightly teasing edge, close to sarcasm but more self deprecating - he seems genuinely grateful but is trying to conceal the embarrassment of the predicament he’s put you into.

“I can take credits or wupiupi,” you quip back, letting a small smile shyly creep over your lips as you sit down across from him. “You’re lucky I was working out that far, I don’t think anybody else would be crazy enough to ride _into_ a sandstorm. You might as well hang a sign around your neck saying you’re not from here.”

His wry expression deepens and you stupidly feel heat rush into your face at those pale eyes meeting yours as his cheeks curve upwards. His smile is dazzlingly boyish despite the cold distance of those eyes. Wordlessly, you set the plate of food in the middle of the table.

“I’m sorry about your eopie,” you say, dropping the playful lilt from your tone. “There are packs of wild massiffs out that way, it’s not a good place to get lost.”

He absently runs a hand through his hair, loosening more sand into the light coloured tunic under his robe.

“I’m sorry, too. She was a gentle animal. I’ll… miss her company.”

Despite his dignified, ramrod straight posture, you feel your lips twitch down at this. You know exactly how lonely the desert is, and a Core Worlder could only feel the absence of other presences even more keenly. You’ve seen glimpses of Coruscant on the holonet and it always appeared to be teeming with life, people from nearly every system in the galaxy living a trillion distinct lives with their own dreams and terrors, a concentration of bodies you find incomprehensible in its density.

“You’d better eat something. These storms can last days… I hope you don’t mind being cooped up for a little while,” you attempt a casual tone.

You’d successfully avoided looking directly at this fact so far, but now the reality is you’ve essentially trapped this guy inside with you. “The fresher’s just through there, the shower is a sonic. Help yourself to anything you need. I’m just going to check the shutters - last time we had a storm this bad they barely held up.” You grab one of the desert plums and shove it in your mouth as you attempt to walk at a normal pace towards the stairs leading up to your tiny bedroom.

Stars, what are you _doing_? You’re letting your imagination run away with you, telling yourself you know a single thing about him. Imagining what he thinks, how he feels. For all you know, he could already have swiped the handful of trugut coins hidden under the loose floor paving near his feet. Thankfully the durasteel shutters seem to be managing the winds okay; you can probably afford to close the seams a little bit to stop sand creeping through and into your sheets but you’re not likely to have a total disaster on your hands.

You hum quietly as you dig your sonic welder out of your belt. Working with your hands has always felt meditative to you, like your mind has to slow down in order to freely sort through whatever is in front of you without room for unnecessary worry. The time passes quickly, and once you’ve sealed the room against the elements outside and you feel much calmer having achieved something small and manageable.

You decide to take a few minutes to yourself before you head back downstairs and try to perform a convincing act of _not_ freaking out over your proximity to the stranger. You grab the ancient canister from beside your bed and suck in several gulps of water, swirling them around your dry mouth before swallowing. After a second of hesitation, you tip a few precious drops into your palm as well, tapping your damp fingers across your cheekbones and lips, trying to soften the dryness there. You try to tell yourself it’s just to make sure you haven’t got any sand left on your skin, or that you didn’t cut yourself up somehow on your chaotic ride into town. You don’t kid yourself for a second.

-

As you creep back downstairs with an armful of blankets, you’re aware your guest has indeed made himself more comfortable. The heavy cloak he was wearing is now hanging neatly on the hook beside the door, as is your shawl. The twisted broom you keep there has moved slightly as well, and you realise it’s because the floor has been swept of the loose sand you both brought in with you. He… he tidied up?

You round the corner into your cramped sitting area and find him leaning back on the bench seat, leg crossed at the knee as he studies something in his hand.

“Did you make this?”, he asks, sounding genuinely interested. You recognise a part from one of your vaporator sensors in his hand, something you’d been trying to tweak to register temperature spikes earlier so farmers could withdraw their harvested stores in time to minimise evaporation.

“Uh, yeah that’s one of mine,” you offer, trying not to reveal how proud you are of that little piece of machinery. “It’s nothing exciting, it’ll never work for any moisture stores bigger than a few hundred acre-feet. I’m just trying to get it working well enough so that anyone gathering moisture for themselves and maybe their animals can keep it hidden at home without worrying about losing it all to evaporation. Too many farmers have to keep their stores in underground water banks and that’s a great way to get stuck paying a water tax to some gangster or other.”

“It’s beautiful work. Truly,” he says. “I’ve visited systems across the galaxy where beings would pay a handsome price for what you’ve made. You could reach a most beneficial arrangement with a trader along one of the hyperspace routes depending on how quickly you can turn these out.” He leans forward and places the part gently back on the table as he speaks.

You feel your eyebrows quirk down into the faintest frown. “It’s not for sale. The whole point is to protect those who can’t afford this type of equipment from those who seek to exploit them. I don’t know how things work where you’re from, but in the Outer Rim decency is even scarcer than water. This is Hutt space, nobody is gonna stick their necks out for the people who can barely keep their families alive.”

He’s looking into your face properly now, the amused expression gone as he touches two fingers thoughtfully to his chin. “And yet you are.” You feel warmth creep across your collarbones and down your chest under his scrutiny.

“I’m not exactly a pillar of altruism either,” you scoff. If he knew the work you’d been doing for the cartel he wouldn’t be considering you quite so intently, you think to yourself. But he motions elegantly with a hand towards himself, currently seated alive and fed in your home and his point is clear. You feel like arguing with him, telling him it wasn’t selflessness that made you save his skin out there, but you stop yourself just in time. Why _did_ you save him then? Do you really want to try to explain to him how _nice_ his voice is, how you’ve noticed him in the marketplace and wish you knew what your name sounded like in that musical accent? You’d rather eat sand.

Instead, you press your lips together as you perch on the bench across from him.

“What are you doing out there on your own? I imagine Tatooine isn’t the most desirable place for a change of scenery.”

His expression shutters immediately and you know it was a mistake to ask. He lays his hands flat over his thighs, palms facing down in a posture that feels practised, professional as he speaks.

“The same as anybody here, I imagine,” his response a little too airy. “Working to establish my own settlement, though I can’t claim to have achieved any spectacular results yet. I may have underestimated the difficulty of the conditions in the desert. But I do enjoy the quiet. And I’m relishing my independence.”

That last comment feels like there’s private joke behind it, but you don’t push.

“Hmm. That’s a very nice way of saying you’ve barely managed to avoid drying out into a hubba goard. Have you set up any vaporators? Surely you’re not living solely off rations.”

He grimaces and you know you’ve hit pretty close to the mark.

“I can help you,” you hear yourself saying before you know why. “I’ve set up a bunch of small harvesting systems before, once you have something big enough just to keep yourself and maybe a bantha or two watered you might be able to grow chokie with the recycled water and dry it out to keep in storage. If the conditions are ideal you may even be able to cultivate some vaporator mushrooms, and Jawas will trade you for pikas.”

He’s staring at you again, eyes like chips of ice as he speaks in a matter-of-fact tone. “Your expert counsel on these matters would be most appreciated. But I cannot ask any more of you. You have already done me a great service. And my settlement is hardly appropriate for guests.”

You tilt your head at him. He doesn’t want you anywhere near his place, that’s for sure. Despite the perfect civility of his words there’s a threat underneath them: to keep your nose out of whatever it is he’s doing out there. He’s firmly rebuffed every single question you’ve asked. And yet you don’t sense any danger from him. You’ve cultivated a pretty good nose for warning signs having darted around the periphery of Jabba’s circles, and you know a brute when you see them. This man is fierce; far more than he appears, but tempered. There’s discipline, and composure alongside it. You wish there was a way to show him you don’t mean any harm. Your offer is genuine; he clearly needs help. But you know better than to argue. Instead, you drop your gaze to your hands and nod once, standing to leave.

“I’ve left some bedding on the table. You can spread out wherever you’re most comfortable. I’m sorry, it isn’t much.”

He stands too, an automatic gesture that smacks of foreign etiquette. “It is more than you know. Thank you, truly. You are kind.”

Your answering smile is soft, hesitant. As you turn to climb the stairs once more, something makes you pause and you turn back. “I understand what it’s like to have nothing of your very own except for your secrets... and I know how easy it is to disappear out there. I’ve seen it happen to a lot of people. I’ve tried help as many as I can. But sometimes they don’t want the help. And whatever happened... to make you choose this. You don’t have to disappear completely. Not if you don’t want to.”

He looks at you for a moment too long. And in that drawn out pause, he releases his shoulders just slightly, enough that he seems to lose his perfect grip on his emotions for a fraction of a second, and you're frozen at the swell of the most excruciating grief you could ever imagine. It’s gone as soon as it appears, and his face is perfectly serene once more as he speaks.

“Ben. My name… is Ben.”

You blink slowly, a hand hovering over your own chest as though to soften the sudden ache there.

“Goodnight, Ben.”


	2. Proximity

The first day passes in fits and starts of time; you’re both overly courteous, each trying to give the other space while really just getting in the way. To avoid the awkwardness of your forced close proximity, you work on a handful of broken sensors you’ve reclaimed from outlying farms, hoping to have them fixed well enough to save the farmers the expense of replacing them. Ben offers to help you with your work and you attempt to show him the intricacies of one of the devices, how you’ve scrapped it together with whatever you could find or wrangle from Jawas. And while he picks up on your instructions quickly, he’s flippant with the salvaged wiring and chips. He doesn’t seem to realise how precious every strip of lining is; how hard-earned. After gritting your teeth for most of the morning, he eventually picks up on your frustration and graciously offers to leave you to it. You feel horribly guilty; you tried so hard to conceal your irritation from him. It wasn’t his fault he’d probably never seen a scrap heap in his life. You imagine those quick, graceful hands are used to working with the kind of expensive tech you’ve never even laid eyes on.

As a consolation, you hand him your datapad. “It’s not exactly an entire library, but it’s not as boring as watching me do this,” you offer. “The storm interferes with the HoloNet signal, so you’re stuck with my collection.”

He spends the rest of the day reading silently, and you can’t help but glance over every so often at his relaxed posture, the thoughtful tilt of his head. You grit your teeth as you work, cursing your poor social skills. You need to calm down. His presence makes you hyperalert to the sound of your own heartbeat, your steady breathing, the quiet tapping of your tools under the white noise of the wind outside.

You try to apologise over dinner, and he hits you with that boyish grin again.

“It’s quite alright. Teaching is... a most challenging undertaking, even for those with years of experience. It was not my intention to disturb your work.”

You’re intrigued by this admission - a teacher? - though still sheepish. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been on my own for a long time. Anyone who chooses teaching as a profession has my admiration, though. I bet it’s not easy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not everyone gets to choose.”

You nod slowly at this. There’s no resentment in his statement, just humour. It’s a piece of information about his life before coming here, and it suits him. You can picture him patiently deflecting incessant questioning, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at some small act of rebellion from a student. You wonder about his implied lack of desire for the role. Duty-bound, then. Selfless.

-

By the morning of the second day, it’s been long enough for you to lose the jittery edge. You dig out a battered deck of cards and challenge him to sabacc to kill time. You decide on betting tidbits of information for lack of anything else. Nothing sensitive, of course. Just scraps. You teach him the handful of Tusken hand gestures you’ve learned over the years, and describe the landmarks he should know in the surrounding region: the krayt rock, the tar pits, the canyons. You tell him cautionary tales of wanderers lost in the desert, describing to him the best way to navigate using the suns and stars rather than the deception of the shifting dunes. You tell him that if he’s ever looking for trouble, he’ll find it in the settlement’s cantina.

You learn from him that there are flowers on Ryloth wider than you are tall, that the streets of Theed are paved with intricate mosaic artwork, and that the best caf on Coruscant is at some place called Dex’s. He describes to you the bubble-eggs of ysalamiri, the crackling purr of a tooka and the beauty of a varactyl’s plumage. Despite the fact you’re both trying to keep the conversation impersonal and encyclopaedic, you find yourself connecting certain threads. He has a soft spot for animals; making you even more regretful for the death of his eopie. He can _drink:_ you crack open a bottle of jet juice you’d never been desperate enough to resort to before and he sips it down without so much as a grimace, while it burns your throat and makes your eyes water. And he has a brutal sense of humour; dry and sarcastic and completely unexpected coming from such an articulate voice. You feel a secret thrill of triumph when your filthy comment about gundarks elicits an undignified snort from him. As you both drink and laugh, his perfect composure cracks just a tiny bit. Enough for you to see the way he appraises you, warmth in his eyes. The absent way he strokes the lower half of his face while you talk, his gaze following the movement of your lips.

The conversation becomes more puerile, like teenagers the deeper down the bottle goes. You haven’t been this close with another person in a long time, and you suspect he hasn’t either. The effect is heady; you feel yourself leaning toward him and are sure you aren’t imagining that he does the same, the sabacc cards abandoned on the table in front of you.

He groans dramatically when you describe the time you crashed a podracer and broke both wrists. You grin. “It was hardly the worst injury I’ve had.”

He shakes his head, expression disgusted. “No, not that. _Podracing_.”

You laugh at him. “Every kid that grows up around here goes through a podracing phase.”

“I know,” he replies, nose wrinkled.

You catch yourself talking about the first time you kissed a boy, both sitting nervously behind a cart in the marketplace. He’d tasted of the joganfruit you’d been stealing together, lips sweet and sticky with the juice.

He tells you about how he loved flying as a boy, until being dragged out on a traumatic autopilot ride and how he’s hated it ever since.

“I swore I’d never fly again. I walked halfway around Felucia once rather than climb into another blasted transport.”

You fail to cover your giggles at this, and he grins.

He describes holding hands with a girl underneath the lunch table at school, and the secret fumbling in a hallway alcove that followed.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” he muses. “For years I felt certain I was being punished for that indiscretion.”

“Must have been a strict school,” you murmur down at your own hands, clasped under the table. “Kids hooking up in hallways sounds like a pretty mild occurrence.”

He’d hummed vaguely before he changed the subject, talking about his indifference towards droids.

You feel pleasantly buzzed as you listen to him. He’s obviously not used to keeping his past so secret. Which supports your theory that this dramatic change to his circumstances is almost definitely aligned with the still-recent fall of the Republic. The way his mouth tightens when he thinks he’s said too much, the sad distance in his eyes. You wonder how many people he lost at the end of the war. You wonder if there is a single one left.

You’re both awake much later than sensible, the dim glowpanels flickering comfortingly under the muffled sound of the wind.

-

On the morning of the third day, there’s quiet outside. You take your time dressing, tidying around yourself before heading downstairs. And like the past two days, he’s already awake and sitting calmly at the bench seat, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. You offer a little smile.

“Storm’s over. You’re free!”

His answering smile is slightly pained and you regret the flippancy of your words. The cozy, companionable air of last night has dissipated slightly with the knowledge you’re about to say goodbye.

You realise you don’t want to. You’ve always enjoyed your solitude, never minded the quiet of your own company. In some ways it’s been a preventative tactic. You’ve been screwing the Hutts behind their backs for years. It would be reckless to involve anybody else only for them to get tossed in the Sarlacc pit along with you when they inevitably figure out what you’ve been up to. Ben’s company feels different. You get the impression he’s another introvert; he seems content to sit with his thoughts. But the warm pocket of intimacy that opened up between you last night makes you think that loneliness is taking its toll on him, too.

You affect a businesslike air.

“I was thinking. I have the day off and I need to run these parts out to a few moisture farms before I collect some orders from Anchorhead. I can give you a lift to your settlement if you don’t mind stopping on the way.”

“I... don’t mind at all. Thank you. My debt to you is already beyond what I can repay.”

You shrug. “I appreciate the company. Buy me a drink next time you’re in town.”

He pauses, and you can see him struggle with this. Does he agree to an ongoing acquaintanceship when he’s clearly been avoiding as much human interaction as possible? And standing there while he wrestles with this, you feel like like a skinless creature. You don’t want to appear as though his response matters a single iota to you, but the reality is you’re holding your breath. He stands to join you.

“It would be my pleasure.”

-

The streets are busy with activity. As is usually the case following a storm, people are bustling to repair damages and sweeping the piled up sand from their doorways. One of your neighbours calls a greeting, and after exchanging a few words with him you turn to find your companion lurking several meters away, hood drawn up over his face. Several of the street’s inhabitants glance over, mildly curious, before continuing their work.

“You _are_ shy,” you tease.

“We can’t all be as popular as you,” he retorts, the sardonic edge amplified by his clipped accent.

You load your banged-up speeder with your repaired parts and a bag of tools. “Do you need anything before we leave? Do I need to fill an extra canteen for you?”

“I _did_ think to bring water. I am not completely useless, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you grin at him wolfishly as you settle yourself into the seat. You catch his exasperated expression as he swings up behind you, and you stifle a giggle as you pull out into the street.

-

By all accounts, Tatooine is a dead planet. Thousands of years ago there were forests, lakes and oceans here. Then the surface was blasted mercilessly during battle until the whole planet was glassed. It took thousands more years for the glass to break down into sand, but fossilised relics of the way it used to be aren’t rare. Most Tatooinians have a preserved skeleton or plant on display in their homes. Speeding over the glistening mineral sand, you breathe deeply. The days after a storm are always exquisitely clear, the air so fresh it almost feels cool in your lungs. You point out anything interesting you see to your passenger as you both spirit over the ground, your voice ringing over the low rumble of your engines.

“See these tracks? Scurriers. They must have a burrow nearby.”

He calls back, “I’ve seen tracks like those near my hut.”

“That’s good. It means you have a source of food.”

He makes a horrified noise behind you and you snicker.

“Don’t be such a snob. They may be cute but they can be pests.”

You crest the peak of a dune, the suns glowing off the sand beneath you and illuminating the valley like a bowl of golden light. By contrast, the sky feels impossibly deep and blue, and you imagine falling upwards into that endless sky. You stretch your arms wide, enjoying the feel of the wind racing up the incline and curling under your scarf and through your hair, clenching your thighs around the speeder to stay steady with your movement. Ben’s hold around your waist tenses slightly.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” you call back to him. This is your favourite part of living in the desert; being in the wide open light. Your chest is filled with weightless joy and feel you could dissolve into that horizon and blow away with the glittering mica. Tatooine will never return to the way it was. Mourning the forests and oceans won’t bring them back. But finding the goodness in what’s left - you’re good at it.

“It certainly is,” he murmurs behind you.

-

You reach the first farm in less than an hour’s ride from town. The hut’s sole inhabitant is already standing at his doorway, waving as you pull up outside.

You dismount from the speeder, dragging your bag from the back.

“You’d better have something good for me, ma pateesa,” the old man gruffs.

“Nice to see you too, Torwin,” you call to him. “I’ve brought you a new sensor for your roof panel.”

He squints out at you both. “Who’s your friend?”

Ben steps closer, lowering his hood. “Oh, hello. Please, don’t mind me. Ben Kenobi. I’ve been kindly offered a lift home. I... was caught unprepared by the storm.”

Torwin’s craggy skin crinkles around a toothless smile as he cackles. “She’d look after every last womp rat in the Dune Sea if she could. Soft hearted, that one.”

You roll your eyes as you trudge toward the hut, tools in hand. “Laugh it up, old man. One of these days I’ll send you a bill for all of this.”

It doesn’t take long for you to get the new sensors installed, and as you perch atop the roof of the hut, you shade your eyes with a hand. Torwin appears to be telling Ben one of his long-winded stories, gesticulating wildly with his clawed hands as the two men stand beside your speederbike. Clipping your tools back onto your belt, you watch as Ben relaxes his tense posture and leans down to say something, arms crossed with both hands hidden in the wide sleeves of his cloak, eliciting a full-bellied laugh from the old man. It makes your heart twinge. The awkwardness doesn’t suit him; he’s clearly used to feeling confident in most situations and is struggling to adapt to his change of circumstances. But despite the sad weight on your chest, you also feel hope.

Whoever he was before the Fall... that’s gone now. And despite the grief, the guilt... there’s comfort as well. Whatever conditions dictated his old life - those are gone too. This is the truest, most scalding form of freedom. He can be whoever he chooses.

-

You pull into Anchorhead in the early afternoon, after several more stops at small farms. The town is a lot busier than Mos Eisley had been, with children running and squealing in the streets. A softer sort of place by Tatooine standards at least, Anchorhead doesn’t have the same grit and harshness as Mos Eisley and you pull the speeder into a vacant spot. Ben dismounts behind you then steps to the side, offering his hand to help you off the bike.

“Are you hungry? The Weary Traveller has decent food and this is the last stop before we’re in the Wastes,” you say, unwinding your shawl from your hair.

He frowns and glances up and down the street as you lay a hand on his arm.

“I grew up here. It’s not like Mos Eisley. Not many foreigners, so there are never troopers out this far. Nobody will bother you, Ben.”

He stares at you for a second, absently scratching at his beard. Then, nodding, he turns to lead the way into the cantina.

It’s beautifully cool inside, like stepping into a pool of water. You’re both settling into a booth at the back of the room when a server droid rolls over.

“SPECIALS TODAY:CREAM OF WOMP RAT SOUP, WORRT CASSEROLE, BEETLE BROTH,” it intones.

“Two of the casseroles, please,” you tell it and it beeps once before trundling off. “It doesn’t sound like much but worrt is a delicacy. It’ll be right up your alley, very fancy.”

“Oh, _very_ , I’m sure.” You raise your eyebrows at his sarcasm as his dazzling smile spreads into laughter. “You seem to be under the impression I’m used to something finer than this. I would remind you I’ve been living off ration packs for a long time. I should hardly be bothered by local fare.”

“How long’ve you been here? Six months, maybe? That’s not so long,” you shoot back.

He shakes his head. “Before coming to Tatooine, I mean. The war… well. Ration packs are certainly not new.”

“Huh,” you mutter at this. Diplomat, teacher... soldier? You picture him in the high-ranking military uniform Republic officers used to wear. It makes sense. You knew he was too well-muscled for one of those cushy Senate pods. You can picture him being a fierce negotiator with that acerbic wit, and you let yourself imagine briefly what his lithe physicality would be like in battle. The thought... is distracting.

You want to ask more, but his head jerks around suddenly to something behind him, as though his name had been called. There’s just an old HoloNet display, projecting news headlines from around the galaxy, but he’s jumped out of his skin at something it’s saying.The feed is showing a jungle planet, figures moving amidst blurring strips of light. The light spins and twirls, reflecting laser fire before the figures are overwhelmed and fall one by one to the ground. You can barely hear the crackling audio, so you slip out of your seat to turn the volume up.

_“…the Jedi insurgents on Kashyyyk have now been neutralised. It is understood that this group of terrorists escaped the Jedi purge and were acting alone. The Empire wishes to reassure all systems that the remaining Jedi numbers are continuing to diminish, and most systems should not consider themselves at risk.”_

You can’t stop your disgusted scoff. “At risk from the _Jedi_? Who do they think believes this?”

The video feed is showing a group of Wookiees, chained and crouching in the mud as white-armoured stormtroopers stand behind them, blasters aimed at their heads. A tall, black-clad shape stalks behind them, clearly issuing orders though the voiceover blots out whatever the figure is saying. You frown. This… man? - doesn’t look like a normal Imperial officer. There’s no smart grey uniform or insignia denoting rank. The black armour shines like a carapace, life support controls on its chest. A cyborg, you realise.

_“…has authorised Lord Vader to oversee the ongoing eradication of the Jedi threat. Any suspected Jedi or rebel activity should be reported to local authorities.”_

A choked noise forces your attention back to Ben. You feel the blood drain from your face. One hand is covering his mouth, those clear eyes blazing under pale gold brows. The other is gripping the edge of the table so hard the tendons on the back of his hand are standing out. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. You don’t know what this means, but you know it’s bad. You crouch beside him, your hand tentative over his own.

“Ben. Let’s go.”

He tears his gaze from the Holo display, and meets your eyes. You hold each other’s attention there for a second, and you wait for him to remember where you are. He stands, and you sweep out of the cantina, the server droid calling behind you, “YOUR ORDER IS NOT COMPLETE” before you’re back in the bright heat outside.

He’s frozen, eyes closed for several long moments in a shaded alcove, away from the busy street. You keep your distance, watching warily and trying not to make your concern conspicuous. Should you try to help him? He appears to be breathing slowly through his nose, and you decide to walk a short way into the market to give him some privacy. Your thoughts are racing as you absently stroke a carved jabor snippet - a popular token between couples. You know a little about the Jedi. They were supposed to be protectors of the peace; something that never made sense to you when the war broke out. The stories painted them as fearless, godlike warriors with supernatural powers and swords made of light. You remember the romantic holovids that were popular when you were a child about the chivalry and goodness of the ancient Knights, and you’d been swept away with the idea. Then you’d gotten older, and learned they were an institution like any other, with rules against attachments, possessions… even love. It seemed a terribly sad life. You consider now that Ben probably knew some Jedi personally. If he’d served the Republic in the war, he may even have fought alongside them. You’d never believed the official story the Empire circulated. It made no sense for the Jedi to attempt to overthrow the Chancellor, when they’d fought for so many years under his command. Something there didn’t add up, and you’d be willing to bet the new Imperial regime simply didn’t want to have to explain itself to the Jedi Order. Your musings are interrupted with a start when you hear your name and turn.

The woman calls out to you again from the opposite side of the stall, waving. Your face breaks into a grin.

“Beru!” You’ve missed her. You’ve only seen her once since adopting the baby; a little boy. Some distant relative, you think, whose parents died in the war like so many others. You coo over the squirming baby wrapped to her chest, trying to remember what people normally say about babies. You comment on how big he’s gotten, despite the fact you can barely see the little thing inside the layers of fabric. She’s gossiping to you; something about the Vanth boy getting in trouble again and you try to nod in the right places.

“I’ve got what we needed. Are you done here?”, a gruff voice interrupts.

Beru jumps, then giggles nervously as the stern-looking man steps between you. You knew Beru as a girl. She was always painfully shy, but sweet. You’ve only met her husband a handful of times but have found him a somewhat bullish man. You force your expression into one of chagrin.

“I won’t keep you, I’m just here running errands…” you trail off, as Owen’s expression darkens thunderously at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to see that Ben seems to have recovered, and is standing a short distance away watching. You frown. Owen can be a jerk, but this macho posturing is hardly necessary.

“Ben, this is Owen and Beru Lars. And their little boy… uh, Jake?”, you wince, hoping you’re close.

His smile is apologetic. “Oh, we’ve met. I trust you are both well, and your little one?”

Beru looks panicked, and backs away as Owen lays his arm over her shoulder.

“Fine. No need for you to concern yourself,” he bites out. You could swear he’s making his voice deeper than it was a moment ago. He practically drags Beru with him and she throws you a sad little wave as they march away down the thoroughfare. You feel your eyebrows raise in astonishment, but Ben appears unoffended.

“Don’t mind Owen. He’s a wermo at the best of times,” you tell him, turning to walk back the way you came. He doesn’t reply, appearing deep in thought as the two of you silently retrace your steps and pause outside the cantina. His composure is remarkable, and he faces you over the parked speederbike, voice steady.

“You didn’t get to eat anything. My apologies. Perhaps another time.”

You tilt your head up at him. “It’s fine. Did you... know them? The Jedi?”

He’s looking at you, but you know he’s not seeing you. The smile lines around his eyes are creased with consternation as he shakes his head. You don’t think you believe him. You climb onto your speeder, pulling gently on his arm.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

-

So. He definitely needs help. The syndstone hut stands atop a sheltered cave, the bluff overlooking the surrounding Wastes. It’s not the worst shelter you’ve seen out here, but your critical eye can already tell the vaporator is in poor shape.

He climbs off the speeder, clearing his throat. He’d been almost silent on the ride from Anchorhead, only speaking to give you directions. Now he looks almost back to normal, offering you his hand again, and you frown as he helps you down.

“What happened to not wanting any visitors?”

He looks affronted. “After all you’ve done for me, _and_ I dragged you from your lunch. The least I could do is replenish your water.”

You dip your head to hide your amusement at this and follow him into the low round building. He’s cleaned it up well; the stone floor is swept and you can see where he’s patched gaps around the door. There’s a low stone bench curved around one wall, and you sit gingerly as he fills your canteen from the vaporator pump. The role reversal is making you fidgety; you aren’t sure what to do with your hands.

“I have been thinking about your offer. And I must admit, the moisture sensors here were broken when I arrived and I don’t possess your skills for such things.” He hands you the refilled canteen and leans on the window frame opposite you, arms folded.

You’re already nodding, swallowing a quick drink before speaking.

“I noticed that when we pulled up. And… no offence, but did you position the humidifier panels?” His flinch confirms your suspicions. “Yeah. Um. You might want to move it to the east side. You’re not going to collect anything where it currently is. Actually, I’d suggest digging out the whole vaporator and moving it lower down the cliff. You want to catch the light in the morning - it’ll charge the panels faster, and there’s no moisture to collect in the afternoons anyway. You _really_ don’t need the evaporation. And you need to get enough power from your panels to pump up from your reservoir; I’d guess whoever built this place would’ve put it into the cave below for easy access. There might even be a recycling system down there so you’d have an emergency supply.”

He’s staring at you with something between bewilderment and admiration. “Anything else?”

You smile sheepishly. “Your water pump looks like it’s seen better days. I’d have to climb underneath to know for sure, but it tastes like you’ve got some mineral seepage happening. Not a huge deal, but every drop you don’t lose makes a difference. Running dry means death out here.”

He’s stroking his chin thoughtfully, and you force your gaze away from the sensual way his long fingers follow the line of his jaw. His tone is softer now.

“I can’t afford to pay you for all of that. I have some Republic credits - though I’m uncertain how useful they will be to you. Which do you think is the most urgent repair to make?”

You twist the cap back onto your canteen and stand. “You don’t have to pay me. The parts - well, we can probably barter with the Jawas for a lot of it. I’m going past Tosche Station on the way home, Merl usually has broken couplings he’s tossing out which aren’t too hard to fix up.”

He rests a hand on your shoulder, your heart leaping at the contact, and his voice is kind. “That is most… charitable of you, but -“

“There are no charity cases on Tatooine,” you interrupt firmly. “Just survivors. I’m helping you because I want to. Okay?”

Stars, he’s close to you. You can see every fleck of gold in his beard right through to the dimple in his chin. He’s staring back at you, and his gaze is the same shade of blue as the deep sky over the dunes. He blinks, then leans back, releasing you. You suck in a slow breath.

“Yes,” he murmurs.

And you know you’re sweaty and dusty, conscious of the sand-chapped roughness of your lips as you touch the tip of your tongue to them. But the way he’s _looking_ at you… it produces that same soaring feeling in your chest as flying over the glittering sand. You feel your cheeks warming and you lower your eyelashes as you nod shyly.

“I’ll have time off from work in a few more weeks. That’d be when you’re due for supplies, right? I can pick up whatever you need and bring it out with me. Just until you get another eopie, or a speeder, or something. In the meantime, keep an eye out for the Jawas’ sandcrawlers. Try to get any old tubing or insulation they might have.”

You’re heading for the door, slinging your canteen back over your shoulder when he speaks again.

“Avamarivash.”

You freeze, turning back. “The poet?”

“Your datapad… I was reading your collection. I have a small collection of bookchips. It’s not much, but… I would like a way to repay you.”

You have no idea what your face looks like, but it takes you several seconds to get it under control again. Horrifically, you hear your voice waver the tiniest bit.

“That would be. I mean. I couldn’t.” You start over. “Bookchips are extremely hard to come by. Especially now that the archives in the Core have been destroyed. Truly, I couldn’t.”

He’s already rifling through a small wooden chest on the bench beside the window. Withdrawing a small bundle of chips, he presses them into your hand. You don’t miss the glint in his eyes. “I am giving these to you because I want to. Alright?”

You don’t think about it until after you’ve done it. You’re just so overwhelmed by this unexpected gesture that your body acts before your brain does. You stretch up, letting your hand barely brush the side of his neck as you kiss him on the cheek. Before he has a chance to respond, you’ve spun and disappeared out into the lowering red light of the afternoon.

You tuck the chips into your bag, taking incredible care not to bend any of them, and wrap your head loosely as you start up your speederbike. He’s standing in the shadowed doorway, arms crossed inside his sleeves again.

“In a few weeks,” you call out, and he raises a hand to wave.

You hit the throttle, spinning the speeder and leaning down over the handlebars as you fly back in the direction of town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to be honest: I really just set out to write a big ol' Obi smut fic but trying to keep it as in-character as I can is making that a verrrry slow process as he just takes a super long time to warm up. I promise we'll get there, but I have a bit of ground to cover first.
> 
> The scene where Obi-Wan sees a news story about the Jedi & learns Vader survived while sitting in a cantina is taken from the Legends book 'The Life and Legend of Obi-Wan Kenobi' by Ryder Windham. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! x


	3. Heat

You can only edit the numbers so far, you tell yourself.

Head bowed, you’re clenching your fists so hard you feel a knuckle pop, trying to suppress your roiling nausea as the Bith woman screams. You’d done your best to help - the amount of water the family had reported collecting _was_ a lot less than the surrounding farms. But you can’t produce something from nothing, and though nobody else working for the Hutts is looking as closely at the figures as you are, you don’t want to invite any deeper scrutiny lest you endanger the life of every other moisture farmer this side of the Dune Sea.

There’s a roar and an awful, wet snapping sound from the grate at the centre of the room and the screaming stops. Around you, the assorted miscreants drinking and lounging around the low stone dais barely seem to notice as the music plays on. This is the hardest part of what you do. It’s one thing to fuck with the data; another entirely to stand in the middle of Jabba’s palace and deliver that same data without fainting from the terror of being caught out. You try to quell the mounting anxiety by distracting yourself… going to the proverbial happy place. Lately, all of your daydreams are about the man in the desert.

After returning Ben to his lonely dwelling, you’d stayed up most of the night poring over the bookchips he’d given you. You’d long ago memorised the few volumes you had; none of the traders on Tatooine had much interest in this kind of thing for either purchase or sale. The chips you’d found were pulled from the wreckage of an old Delta-7 light interceptor, and they were precious to you if not to anyone else. Two collections from Korfanus; a book by the Ithorian writer Londahl, and your favourite - a book of poetry from ancient Tython. You found the words of the old poetry immensely comforting - you returned to the same ones time and again when you felt lonely, or hopeless. Nothing could have prepared you for the shock of seeing a handful of similar chips in Ben’s hand; you’d heard the archives on Coruscant were destroyed in the purge at the end of the war and you couldn’t imagine anyone bothering to salvage something so frivolous when the entire fucking ecumenopolis was being turned on its head.

The chips he’d given you were all from that same Tythan poet - Avamarivash. Your old collection was heavily nature-focused -light and movement, the forces of energy as they influenced life and death, balance and control. The new collection is similarly spiritual; lots of talk about transcendence, inner peace, harnessing emotion, but also several pieces which are significantly more …physical. You were entirely unprepared for the visceral effect the verses would have on you, the following nights spent in restless distraction. The thought your mind snags on most continually though, is the chips’ benefactor. You hadn’t wanted to be disrespectful, but reading those poems… you couldn’t help mentally associating him with the images it sparked. A line swims into your head now, unbidden, “ _…but as your body moves under my hands, charged and waiting… you create me against your thighs… my body, writes into your flesh… the poem you make of me._ ” You shiver involuntarily, remembering the nights you’d spent touching yourself tangled in your hot bed to the image of graceful, strong hands pressing those bookchips into yours. 

“Cheeka!”

Your head snaps up with a start. The red-eyed Twi’lek is motioning you forward, sharp teeth glinting as he leers at you. You swallow hard and step in front of the dais, keeping your gaze focused away from the slimy rolls of the thing in front of you.

“Jabba. The readings for this season are not promising. All signs are pointing to drought: the worst I’ve seen.” This much at least is true. You’ve worsened the figures slightly to allow farmers to hold onto as much water as possible, but the gap is shrinking.

There’s some rumbling around the room; nobody envies you the task of breaking bad news to the Hutt.

“Soong du hotshuh. Kava jee-jee oto stowana?”, he booms.

You shrug. “Difficult to say. The current humidity is already less than the levels this time last cycle and we haven’t entered the worst months yet. My best estimate would be a reduction of at least a third.”

Jabba’s chewing some kind of sticky black sludge; you watch as a glob drips down his body and onto the head of the monkey-lizard nestled there.

“Fofo ta luto moulee rah.”

Your jaw drops. “Jabba, with respect, you can’t possibly- _doubling_ the water tax would leave reservoirs completely dry, it would _kill_ -“

“Chess ko, cheeka,” he interrupts. “Chuba wa haku do yot mowata ma chik youngee.” His deep laugh makes your skin crawl.

It’s not the first time he’s threatened to have you chained to his throne with the other poor girls. You keep your mouth clamped shut, the rest of your projected readings whispered into Jabba’s ear directly by the Twi’lek, his eyes glittering with malice. This is really, really bad. Doubling the tax would mean you’d need to produce readings of _nothing_ to allow for anybody to hold onto their stores, and even the laziest examination of the figures wouldn’t be fooled for a second. You feel pure rage settling in your belly. Your hatred for the Hutts has been what motivated you to keep going, the grim satisfaction taken in the knowledge that you were undercutting their operations right in front of them. You’ve never been a fighter but you’d known that every day you could keep water in the hands of the people who needed it, you were winning a small victory. This feels like something in your chest is being crushed. Jabba calls for a drink, and you know you’ve been dismissed. The Twi’lek sneers at you lewdly, tossing you a small pouch of credits. Numbly, you turn and make your way out of the palace.

You had to reconcile yourself with the ugliness of taking their money a long time ago. You’d been disgusted at yourself the first time you took the payment, needing the funds desperately to pay for repairs for your speeder. You’d paid for the parts, paranoid that every pair of eyes in the spaceport settlement was watching you and aware of how you came by the money. You hadn’t been able to look anybody in the eye all week, even when you’d driven out to help a family install a hydroponic bank underneath their homestead. The guilt had felt bitter on your tongue, and it wasn’t until you’d worked yourself sick digging in the sun that you’d felt suitably repentant.

You knew this wasn’t entirely balanced; most people in Mos Eisley and indeed Tatooine in general made money from the Hutts in some indirect capacity. You just had to remind yourself _why_ you were doing it. Giving away nearly everything you made, pushing your body to its limits working endlessly - this was how you would sleep at night. Though, deep down, you know that secretly your self-imposed social isolation has left little else for you to do in the way of fostering any kind of relationship with another person. You may be terrified to drag anybody else down with you when your ass is inevitably busted, but being appreciated by others is the next best thing to feeling less than totally alone.

-

You’re trying very hard not to stare.

You’d been nervous driving out that morning, the past few weeks only serving to make you more keenly reminded of the last time you’d seen Ben, when you’d dared to kiss his cheek. You don’t know why you’re so shy about it - it’s not like you haven’t had physical encounters before. One benefit of living in the spaceport town is that traders and merchants are constantly coming and going. When overcome with the need you’d had no compulsions against catching the eye of some rough-mouthed offworlder for a night - once you’d met an armoured bounty hunter who’d refused to remove his helmet as he bent you over the controls of his ship.Some of them had even been kind; you remember a boy with soft brown eyes from Naboo who had tried to convince you to leave with him, and sometimes late at night you wonder what it would be like if you’d said yes. You know you’d never be able to forgive yourself for leaving the work you have to do here behind. And now, glancing up through your eyelashes, you’re glad you didn’t.

You’ve both been working for hours, the suns beating down in waves as you dig the old moisture vaporator out of the ground. It’s been good to work with your body, the anxiety over the water tax having occupied your every thought for the past days prior to your journey back to the Jundland Wastes. You’re used to the exertion - you’ve done this countless times on countless farms - but it’s hard work nonetheless. You couldn’t help but wonder whether Ben would be able to keep up with you in the blistering heat. You don’t doubt his physical acumen; you haven’t forgotten the lean muscle of his body or the effortless, powerful way he moves, but his crystal accent and old fashioned manners seem glaringly at odds with the kind of filthy, sweaty labour you’ve grown used to in the desert. You hadn’t been able to picture it, which is why it’s so fucking hard to ignore what’s now happening right in front of you.

He straightens up to survey the hole he’s dug, fingers raking through floppy copper hair to push the damp darkened strands out of his eyes. After the hours of work, you can see the faintest darkening of his skin underneath the layer of sweat-stuck sand, especially considering he’s wearing… well, fuck, he’s not wearing _much_. You’d had to focus every cell of grey matter in your brain to stare intently into your water canteen when he’d stripped his heavy tunic off, throwing it unceremoniously into a heap behind him and barely pausing in the rhythm of his work. When you had finally allowed yourself to glance over, you’d gawped unguarded for several long seconds before tearing your gaze away.

His light undershirt is _soaked_ with sweat, clinging to every line of defined muscle on his body. The pale fabric is filthy, streaked with the darkened mineral dust your work has stirred up and matching with the dusty handprints and patches on his form-fitting pants. Your gaze had snagged on the oddest places; the curve of his neck as he works, his _forearms_ , sleeves pushed up to reveal the line of his flexors, and those hands - oh Maker, his fucking hands, you muse sadly as he throws his head back to take a drink of water.

You watch his throat move as he swallows, and you feel a spike of cold under the beating light as something low, low in your stomach clenches. You’re hopelessly infatuated, you realise now. Because for all of his grace, his sarcasm, the way he’s so effectively deflected anything that might penetrate his unreachable aura, it falls off here. Watching him, dusty, sandy, his hands roughened with crescents of dirt underneath the nails, his unreachable air slips away. He’s just a man, you think. You just want him …as a man.

You’d stripped off your own outer layers of clothing hours ago, leaving your arms and midriff bare under the layer of dust - a common thing to do while working in the heat that most Tatooinians wouldn’t bat an eye at. Ben, however, is no Tatooinian. You were sure you didn’t imagine the prickle of being watched, the way his head turned to follow you in your peripheral vision. _You’re just projecting_ , a nasty little voice at the back of your head says, but then again, you watch the lines of his back muscles flex as he digs, and catch the turn of his head as he glances back at you, eyes trailing up the length of your legs.

He catches your eye and grins, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle.

“Alright, I’m ready for your judgment: is this to your satisfaction?”

You roll your eyes, wiping the back of your hand against your brow and crouching to check the measurements.

“Perfect. Now we just need to hope the wind doesn’t fill the hole with sand before we can get that post in. It weighs a ton, I’ll dash into town and rent a cheap crane droid for a couple hours just to-“, you trail off stupidly as Ben shoulders the post and lifts it into position.

What the fuck? He may be strong, but that post is physically unliftable for a human. His face is concentrated but unstrained, hands spread evenly as light coloured strands of hair fall in his face, and he eases it down. He catches sight of your stunned expression, and raises an eyebrow at you, dimpling.

“I hardly think it’s necessary to waste any more of your credits on my account, my dear.”

You close your mouth with an audible snap as he’s wiping the sweat from his face, tucked into his own shoulder to reach the only clean patch left on his shirt.His eyes are crinkled with amusement as you struggle to... did he just... _my dear_?

“I… think it’s time for a break,” you manage, heading for his hut.

Inside, the darkness of the shade does nothing to cool the way you feel. Between the poetry and watching him work, you’re starting to lose your grip, and you realise you’re absently running your fingers across your own bottom lip, watching as he stomps sand from his boots at the doorway.

“I realise it’s getting late, but I do hope you stay for dinner,” he says. “In fact, I know you intended to drive out again tomorrow, but surely the cost of fuel would be better saved. You are most welcome to stay here tonight. If you wish, of course.”

You try to keep your quick appraisal of the hut inconspicuous. It _would_ save you a ton of fuel to not have to drive home and back again tomorrow just to finish working, but his place is tiny. You’d be in very close proximity, and lately your nights have been… restless.

“I don’t want to impose,” you hedge.

He passes you on the way to the sonic, his hand brushing lightly on your shoulder.

“You couldn’t.”

-

You’re uncomfortable, but it’s not the only thing keeping you awake. You had staunchly refused the offer of his bed.

“I’m perfectly fine on the floor, honestly,” you had told him. “And please don’t make me feel like a terrible host by insisting, because _you_ slept on _my_ floor.”

He’d opened his mouth to argue further, and you were sure somewhere in his head an alarm was blaring at the breach of etiquette. You threw the worn blanket from the back of your speederbike on the floor and settled yourself there decisively. He shook his head, his pursed lips only drawing attention to the dimple beside his mouth, and you’d frowned at him.

“Good _night_.”

Now, you feel the familiar grit of fine sand against the back of your legs as you shift, unsettled with your hands pressed between your knees. The tiny hut is dim, but you can still make out the shape of his sleeping form under the arched alcove on the opposite side of the room. You’re horrifically awake, every nerve sparking hyperalert to the sound of his breathing. You’d wanted nothing more than to stay in the sonic for hours, the sensitivity of your own body under your hands ratcheting up to a million as you recounted the day. He’d barely touched you, for fuck’s sake. But then over dinner, you were sure you weren’t imagining the way his bright gaze followed your lips as you spoke, and how he’d run his own hand absently over his lips, the tips of his fingers gently resting on the neatly trimmed hair at his chin as he smiled at you. The casual way he’d touched your arm as he spoke. The lilting, teasing tone in his voice.

You toss to your other side once more, frustration reaching boiling point. “ _…carry me down into that liquid place again where we meet without talking,_ ” the line of poetry floats into your head, and you feel yourself throb in a way that feels downright urgent.

Surely he’s asleep now, you reason, tentatively unclenching your knees and sliding one hand up the inside of your thigh. Your heart is pounding, whether from your arousal or the anxiety of being caught you can’t tell. You’re wearing only a thin breastband and underwear, having awkwardly slid your clothes off underneath the blanket, and now you shiver, cool in the frigidity of the desert night. Holding your breath, listening so hard you’re nearly dizzy, you slide your fingers underneath the side of your underwear. You can feel how wet you are, the desperate slick warm against your fingers as you press down hard on your clit. Just this first touch is enough to elicit a silent groan, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the pressure.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so turned on in your life, and the fact you’re trying to furtively relieve the ache in the darkened room only makes your skin feel hotter, goosebumps raising with a prickle on the backs of your arms. You slide a finger inside yourself, gathering your own arousal to better aid the slip of your fingers against your clit as you keep your teeth latched firmly around your lip.

And you don’t mean to, you _really_ don’t, but you find yourself imagining different fingers circling the engorged nub, hands with fair skin reddened faintly from hours underneath unfamiliar suns, and as you slide two fingers back inside yourself, you picture longer, thicker, more elegant fingers… you curl a third finger in, toes flexing at the stretch, and your muscles begin to tighten, inner thighs trembling, when you hear a raspy intake from the shadow at the opposite end of the room and you rip your hands out of your underwear, panicked.

Silence fills the space again, and you wonder if you imagined it. But no, you think, the slow rhythm of his breath isn’t quite as steady as before, and the knowledge he’s awake leaves you too terrified to continue. How could he have woken up, you fume to yourself. You hadn’t made a single sound, yet his shuddered breath sounded almost… like the sound you would have made if you weren’t so carefully controlling yourself. But… there’s no way he would be able to tell what you were doing, you try to reassure yourself. He couldn’t, otherwise you’d throw yourself over a cliff with the embarrassment. The time stretches and you lay there, interminable on the hard floor as your thoughts circle around and around. You don’t hear another sound from his side of the room, and at some point you drift into a shallow, disappointed sleep.

-

The pale light of the rising suns paints the inside of your eyelids red, and you wake slowly, disoriented for a few moments until you remember where you are. Ben’s not in the room, thank the Maker, so you can sit and try to organise your thoughts. You’re getting into dangerous territory. It’s one thing to hook up with a smooth-talking transient spice smuggler for the night, another to start fantasising about a local with a sad history and pretty hands in the dead of night. You’ve got a duty here; and things are only about to get worse with the coming drought. You can’t get attached to someone just to risk Jabba coming after him too when you run out of time, and Ben’s trusted you enough to let you see where he’s living despite the fact you’d already figured out he’s some kind of Imperial undesirable. So, okay. Just don’t get attached, you think. It shouldn’t mean you can’t still be close to him _physically_. Why does it still feel like you’d be crossing some kind of irreversible line? You’re getting nowhere with this, and frustrated you grind the heels of your hands into your eyes before dragging yourself to your feet, pulling your shirt over your head.

You duck your head around the doorway, peering out into the still-cool morning. Ben is standing at the edge of the cliff, turned sidelong to your view, hands loose at his sides. Even from this distance you can see his eyes are closed, lips moving nearly imperceptibly. You know it’s intrusive, but you can’t help but pause, transfixed. He looks so young, pale hair outlined by the light, loose shirt ruffling lightly in the breeze. Quietly, you turn back inside, laying out a simple breakfast of bread.

-

“I wanted to thank you again for the bookchips,” you say, squeezed opposite him at the low table. “I can’t believe you had them. They’re so hard to come by.”

“You gave me the idea yourself. I must admit, I did not expect anybody in the Outer Rim would have an interest in Avamarivash.”

“It’s… not what I expected,” you admit. “I’d heard Avamarivash was supposed to be a Jedi. But he talks about… um, intimacy in a way I’ve never heard before. It’s... beautiful.” You feel your face blaze with heat and hope he doesn’t notice.

Ben’s tone is amused. “Yes, it is. I’ve always enjoyed his work, He was from a much earlier incarnation, the Je’daii, predating the Order most people are familiar with. Avamarivash was renowned for his… conquests. Though there are some common misconceptions around sex and the Jedi. Many Jedi were sexually active, and it was certainly never forbidden.”

 _That’s_ interesting. Your musings from earlier today drift back in pieces, curiously mirrored. You tilt your head. “But they weren’t allowed to have relationships? Surely there would be times when... it would be hard to separate the two.”

His smile is tight as he answers. “It was… considered dangerous. Possessive attachments could lead to emotional instability, lack of focus, loss of impartial judgment. A Jedi consumed with the fear of losing something, or someone, becomes vulnerable to the Dark Side.”

You’ve heard of the Dark Side, but only in abstract terms. The romantic Holos you’d seen as a kid had always described it as a shapeless, undefined evil, like some kind of sickness. You imagine it in this context; as surrendering to a terrible grief and it makes sense.

“I guess that’s one of the hardest things anybody will ever do, isn’t it?” you muse, ripping apart your bread with your fingers. “From the moment you begin to care for somebody, you’re living in fear of the inevitable pain to come the day it ends. Whether by death or betrayal, sickness or just… _time_. To… let yourself love, despite that. _Accepting_ it. I bet it takes a hell of a lot of courage. Maybe the Jedi weren’t brave enough for that. I guess it doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

He sits back, folding his arms. You raise your eyes to meet his, and he has that terrible, flayed raw pain in his face again. You remember with a lurch that you’re speaking to someone who is grieving not just the loss of others, but _himself,_ whoever that was. Some people have to rewrite themselves piece by piece, over long stretches of time. They replace one part, then another, and the process barely feels like it’s happening at all. Then there are those who are forced to erase themselves all at once. The sloughing off of an entire life is agonising. You suddenly need to touch him, and before you’ve meant to, you’re around the table, standing in front of him. You reach your arms out, and pull his body against yours. From his sitting position, his head is pressed to your chest and you hold him there, wondering whether he can hear your heart beating. You’re there for an extended moment, and you feel when he takes in a shuddering breath and pulls away slightly, reaching to grasp one of your hands gently in his and press a kiss to the back of it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. And you are. You don’t understand, but you know you’re terribly, terribly sorry.

He shakes his head, wordless for once.

Your hand had been soft on the back of his neck, but now you can feel the smooth line of his spine beneath your fingers, absently running your hand up to his head. You wish you could make him forget what you’d reminded him about his grief, and your traitorous mind offers an image to you: you see yourself, on your knees before him… letting yourself touch his chest, his thighs, his hands tangling in your hair, pressing you forward, tasting him - and suddenly more images are appearing in your mind, and it feels like they aren’t even _coming_ from you, which is impossible - where else would they come from? - but they hit you with a force that hitches your breathing and you’re seeing the reverse, but from _his_ perspective. You see yourself laid out, languid and flushed, your skin kissed from the sun and shining from your sweat, dressed as you were yesterday, sand dusting your knees and ankles, you look… beautiful, and the vision is so vivid you can almost feel the hair of his beard tickle the inside of your thighs, his eyes closed in rapture as his straight, narrow nose brushes your clit as he presses his tongue inside…

He catches his breath in his throat as you do, your other hand still caught in his own, and you force yourself to step back. What was _that_? It felt absolutely real, you can feel how wet you’ve become, and somehow it’s like he _knows_ and can feel it too, blue eyes sharp on you, brows lowered in an expression of complete concentration, like he’s trying to figure it out as well. Your face is on fire, and you try to conceal it by turning to carry the sparse dishes from the table to the bench.

“I should probably get those panels up on top of the ridge before the suns are too high,” you toss over your shoulder as he stands from the table. “I don’t think we should work in the double-noon again; I’d probably pass out. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Nor did I,” he responds, and something is rough in his tone… fucking _Stars_ , you nearly drop the bowl you’re holding. You spin, mouth a silent “o” of shock, but he’s already rolling up his sleeves and striding out the low door.

-

There’s less work to do today, and you’re done by mid-morning. The new sensor panels are positioned to better catch the morning sun, and the repositioned moisture vaporator should be enough to tide him over for now until you can fix the issues with his water storage. You wipe the sand from your hands on a rag, walking to join him as Ben piles the scraps and old parts onto the back of your speeder bike. You’re pretty sure you can repurpose most of them, and everything else you can sell or trade. There’s not much else you can do for now - you need to get more parts before doing any more work, but you really don’t want to leave.

Somehow the thought of waiting several more weeks before seeing him again feels torturous, returning to the nerve-wracked days in Mos Eisley recording readings and avoiding as much interaction with anybody from Jabba’s crew as possible. You haven’t come up with a solution to the drought issue yet and frankly you’re scared of the repercussions to come. But the real reason you’re stalling your departure is because you feel pulled toward him like a gravity well. You don’t want to go. You want him to _look_ at you again, the way he was earlier. You want him to touch you, and you want to feel his body underneath your own hands. You’ve been denying yourself this, and now you’re frozen with wanting between going forward and being rooted to the spot. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Permission?

“My dear…”, he’s leaning in close to you, that little smile back. “Why must you make this so hard for yourself?”

You feel your lungs drop, the inside of your body instantly spiking with combined arousal and mortification. Are you so obvious?

“I- I’m not sure what you-,” you manage, but he’s bending to kiss you lightly right on the edge of your lips.

“Come back inside,” he offers, and you’re so hot it feels like your brain is boiling inside your head. You could actually faint, you realise. Somehow, _impossibly_ , he knows. And he’s offering you an easy out: his tone is casual, the proposition unweighted, uncomplicated.

“Are you... sure?” you murmur, frozen. He huffs a short laugh.

“Oh, yes,” and it’s the only response you need.

You turn your head to meet his lips straight on, soft above the courseness of hair against your chin. Your heart kicking up into a gallop, you press forward, letting your tongue dip out to taste him, and he’s gently pulling your hair out of the way where the wind has tangled a few strands between your lips. You press him back further, urging him to move, and you’re both stumbling backwards into the dimness of the hut.

You’re momentarily blinded in the dark, your eyes still attuned to the brightness outside, only serving to increase your sensitivity to the feeling of both of Ben’s hands wrapped around your waist: it’s enough to make you shudder violently. He lifts you onto the low bench inset without effort, and again you’re struck by his easy physicality, the way he doesn’t seem held to the same rules of human limitation as anyone else you’ve met. You’re reaching for any part of him you can; hands plucking at his chest, his pants, trying to pull him closer, and obligingly he shrugs out of his tunic, unclipping his belt and letting it fall behind him. You scoot forward, desperate to finally get your hands on his body. The firm plane of his stomach is hot underneath your hands, and as your eyes grow accustomed to the dark you realise you’re biting your lip at the sight of him. His fair skin has the faintest gold undertone, fine pale hair dusting his body and darkening at the taut skin above the line of his pants. Your eyes catch on the handful of scars on his upper shoulders and chest, thin marks almost as though his skin has been singed. He’s fucking gorgeous, you think.

You can’t stop yourself leaning in to press your lips to the indentation of his hip, the v-shape leading underneath the edges of his pants. He exhales slowly, cradling the back of your head in one hand and you let your tongue press hotly out, tasting the warm salt of his skin, licking a slow line up his finely muscled abdomen. Fuck, you want him so badly. You’ve never wanted anything this badly before in your life, and you’re impatient as you hook your legs around his, keeping him still as you ease his pants down and release his already-hard cock. You’d been so busy imagining this that you almost can’t believe you’re here, and you let yourself take a moment to just marvel at the sight before you’re too worked up to wait any longer. You lean down, licking a stripe from the tip up to the base of the shaft, and he hums deep in his throat. You press your tongue to the slit at his tip, tasting the precum pearling there, and you tilt your head back to watch him as you soften your lips, sliding your mouth around him.

His head is tilted back, and you watch as he runs a hand back through that floppy hair, a tremor running through his whole body. He’s ridiculously beautiful, you think, your mind dissolving into the simplest thoughts with your own arousal as your watering mouth lubricates your ministrations. You hollow your cheeks, flicking your tongue against the underside of his cock, and you feel him twitch in your mouth, his gentle groan above you making you melt in your underwear. You lower a hand beneath your own pants, sliding your fingers down until you can press against your aching clit as you relax your throat, taking him as deep as you can.

“My dear...”, his voice strained, and as you hum in response his taut stomach muscles tense from the vibrations.

“You’ll... you’re going to... please, allow me-“, and it’s the least articulate you’ve heard him, your chest swelling with pride at how undone you’ve made him. His hands are gentle in your hair, but insistent as he tries to ease you back. You can tell he’s beginning to lose control, his cock twitching in your mouth. You lean back letting him slide out slowly, feeling a line of saliva connecting your lips to his cock as you look up at him and despite his calmness, he looks _shattered._ His own lips are parted, fair cheeks flushed and brow creased in concentration over his shut eyes as though he’s exerting extreme self control against the lure of reckless passion. You know he wants to touch you back, even if for no other reason than that his sense of propriety demands reciprocation, but you need this. This beautiful, elegant, mysterious man who somehow has both ancient, forbidden poetry and inhuman strength in his possession. The nervousness you felt around him, your helpless attraction to him... you need to watch him come apart for you.

And again, as though he _knows_ somehow, his eyes snap open and fix themselves to yours just as you lower your head once more, enveloping his desperately hard cock into the heat of your mouth, taking him all the way to the back of your throat, your eyes watering from the effort. And he _moans_ , the sound gorgeous, you can practically hear the Coruscanti accent in just that sound, and the way it travels directly to your clit is almost painfully powerful as you continue to touch yourself. The entire length of his cock is coated in wetness, and you withdraw your other hand from its hold on his firm waist, using it to instead stroke the length of his erection as you keep working your lips over the tip. You press your tongue to the swollen head of his cock and you can taste how close he is, his cock throbbing in your wet, loose fist as he gasps.

Your pressure on your own clit increases and you groan around him as you feel your muscles clenching and tightening deliciously, and in a smooth motion you take him once more to your deepest limit just in time for the thick spurt of his cum to fill your throat. He pulses, again and again, the slow pumping synchronised perfectly with the motion of your throat as you swallow each load. And then you’re over the edge of your own orgasm; you pull back off his cock as you gasp thickly, head thrown back, your lips wet and brow contorted in pleasure as your pussy clenches, the hot wave of your release loosening your limbs as you fall against him.

It takes several long moments before you return to yourself, long enough to realise he’s still gently combing those long fingers through your hair while you come back down. You peer up at him, and though his expression is rueful he has that boyish gleam in his eyes again.

“Must you insist on being so... independent?”, he asks, voice rough.

And despite what you’ve just done you feel the inexplicable urge to hide your face from him, suddenly feeling terribly exposed in the afterglow of your orgasm.

He sighs, straightening his clothes and helping you up from the low bench. You silently recompose yourself; taking your time as you readjust your clothing and retie your hair.

You’ve got that same urge you always do; to run away and avoid thinking about what just happened, to not have to consider how you feel, and you feel panic clawing up your chest as you force yourself to smile lightly at him.

“I- I need to get back to town. Is there anything you want me to bring you next time I’m out? It’ll probably be another few weeks before I have parts for your water pump.”

He’s watching you thoughtfully, arms crossed over his chest, irritatingly peaceful.

“Actually, I’m going to attempt to make my own way into Mos Eisley in the next week or so. I have some... business to attend to. If you have a spare evening, I believe I still owe you a drink.”

Your heart swoops at this and you immediately stomp it down, nodding vaguely as you head past him out into the bright day. No, no, no, you think. It’s just a drink. Just sex. Just an acquaintanceship. Uncannily, he seems to yet again pick up on your unspoken struggle as he calls your name lightly from the shadowed doorway. His smile doesn’t feel patronising, or mirthful. It’s just kind.

“Please know that your are entirely free from any obligation to me. I would understand. But I would truly like to buy you that drink, and enjoy the pleasure of your company again.” How is this so easy for him? you wonder. You’d always had the luxury of knowing you’d never see them again after all of your previous encounters. Somehow, separating sex from emotion seems to be a non-concern for him, and you decide there to try to match his serene compartmentalisation.

“That would actually be... really nice. I’m free any evening. And... well, you know where to find me.”

He offers you his hand as you climb onto your speeder, and you as you turn to drive back to town, this time you don’t glance backwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huttese translation:
> 
> (That is a shame. How much of a loss do you expect?)  
> (Double the percentage of the payments)  
> (Careful, woman. You'll do as you’re told unless you want a career change as one of my dancing girls.)
> 
> Avamarivash is from the SW Legends EU; he was basically the Jedi equivalent of a horny rockstar poet lel. I've stolen some lines I like from contemporary poets Audre Lorde and Molly Fish.
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, please leave your thoughts/comments/criticisms below x


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